


Under

by upallnightstrungtight



Series: checklist [3]
Category: Super Junior
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5302670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upallnightstrungtight/pseuds/upallnightstrungtight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not always easy to give him what he wants, but he’s always worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under

He’s here again, just like he said he would be, his sordid sorcery weaving its way under Henry’s skin with hooded gaze and barely-parted mouth. The unstoppable force that he’s become swallows the ground beneath him as he comes closer, a neon sign radiating his intentions preceding him. Sending back a brief bite of his lip, Henry stays still, not fighting the dazed expression overtaking him.

Just short of touching, Ryeowook halts his steps, his eyes casting around for a resting place as if he’s lost his confidence already, or as if it could only take him this far. He presses his lips together so that they disappear for a moment, then his tongue darts out, so quickly that it makes him look nervous rather than sensual. Maybe it wasn’t intended as anything. Maybe Henry’s looking too hard. _Thinking_ too hard, for that matter, so he closes the gap, coaxing Ryeowook with the barest nip to his bottom lip, drawing him out with open-mouthed kisses that flow easily, smoothly. A nearly-inaudible exhale comes from Ryeowook, harder than before, his hands firm as they descend along Henry’s sides.

Breaking their liplock all too soon, Ryeowook is almost gentle as he pulls off Henry’s shirt, but he’s too hasty to fully accomplish that, only an instant passing before his teeth graze Henry’s nipple, a haphazard circle turning warm and damp beneath his breath while his hands do much the same where they rest on Henry’s waist. The craving must’ve built higher than he realized, because it sends a minute shiver running through him. Ryeowook says his name like that itself is pleasurable, as if desire and touch could be compressed into two soft, airy syllables. Surely, they can, when Ryeowook’s tongue is the one forming them.

A winding path of mist takes shape from his sternum to his navel and a bit further still, a chill left behind wherever Ryeowook’s mouth no longer rests. He draws entirely new words with his fingers skittering across his skin, appearing to be mired in indecision.

It’s agonizing, in a way; Henry doesn’t trust himself in this state, feeling drawn in as if by a magnet. Perhaps neither of them do, a quicksilver flash of wide-eyed bewilderment flittering across Ryeowook’s face. What is it that makes the warmth he radiates shutter, locked away? What is he grappling with? He seems to overcome it; Henry holds back a sigh of relief. He’s been chosen once more. At some point, each stone plunked down on one side must build up enough to tip the scales. _Don’t leave me_ , he doesn’t want to think again.

Nibbling down the underside of his upper arm, a weakness ruthlessly exploited, yanks him out of the realm of his mind. Just like that, he feels lightheaded from the potential right now holds, wafting by like it could be snatched out of the air.

Overloaded. Scrambled. Where to reach for first? Chest, chest is safe, firm beneath his hands. Up along Ryeowook’s collarbone, over his shoulders, trying not to grip too tight down his arms, but Henry loses his control by the time he gets to Ryeowook’s wrists and pulls him close, close enough to kiss, cutting off the soundtrack of his panting. Sound is for memory, but touch is for right this moment. Then, he gets both when he runs his tongue along the edges of Ryeowook’s and is treated to a soft moan in tandem with the sparks shooting through him.

He releases Ryeowook’s wrists but quickly binds him again, one arm latched around his middle, the other at an angle across his shoulder blades, fingers curling over his ribs, smoothing short up and down strokes as far as possible within his grasp. With surprising force, Ryeowook clings back, his composition long since lost. There’s no objection to be found to feeling him pressed this close. Henry’s being gripped so hard that he feels branded by it and it’s still not close enough. As averse as he is to letting go, Ryeowook’s shirt is abrasive as it moves over his bare skin while any reason for it to still be on is lacking entirely. Time to fix that.

He was worried that he’d be usurped, his ministrations made useless, pleased to find that that’s unfounded this time. It’s been a while since they’ve had a slow session. Frenetic trysts certainly have their appeal, but he’s left unsatisfied in a broader way at the idea of only having those. Too high of a risk of becoming impersonal, a thought he can’t stand. He wants to show… show that…

He’s so distracted by the lines of Ryeowook’s torso for a moment that he can’t think.

Fuck, he just wants to see that satisfied expression Ryeowook gets when he’s gotten exactly what he wants, but he plays that so close to his chest that it’s surprisingly hard to draw it out. Guaranteed not to when they race towards ecstasy too long denied for any sort of restraint.

 _I can’t give you what you want if you won’t tell me._ He decides on the direct approach. Throwing the shirt aside, he catches Ryeowook’s focus with an endearment that only makes sense in French, one of a handful he keeps in reserve, and tips his chin up with his curled hand. “Tell me what you want,” he says with a small smile.

“Nothing special,” Ryeowook mumbles in response, though the last traces of a faraway expression have at least left him as his gaze drops towards the floor. The pieces start falling into place. He knows what to do when he’s giving, but not when he’s asking. _That’s_ what’s been happening this whole time. Henry might laugh if it wasn’t so heartbreaking. _Nothing special_ still means there’s _something_.

Before he can continue this line of inquiry, Ryeowook darts down to engulf his index finger in the shocking heat his mouth holds. All at once, a burst of arousal, concern about hurting him with the depth, and the impulse to push him to his knees by the back of his neck crowd into him. He’s caught in the middle, so he decides to follow Ryeowook’s lead, the decision itself easy and familiar. If this is a distraction, it’s working. Beautifully, at that, matching his lips and his tongue and his intense, hungry eyes.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Henry says, the words coming out breathy instead of level. “Just tell me. Please.” Ryeowook’s eyes glitter as his tongue glides back and forth over the pad of Henry’s finger, sleek silk sensation that feels impossibly intense for such a small action.

Henry digs his teeth into his own lip and whimpers, unable to look away. His skin feels too tight and he chances moving his finger out of Ryeowook’s mouth himself, running the slippery tip over Ryeowook’s flushed lips in a slow circuit. He pleads as much with his eyes as with his thumb tenderly brushing over Ryeowook’s jawline, one end to the other as Ryeowook’s eyes fall closed through a silence that seems to last forever. He opens them again slowly.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he says with the merest suggestion of a growl, coated in honey. More startling than the heady expectant excitement making Henry unsteady upon hearing that sound is the fact that he answered at all.

With a widening smirk, Ryeowook’s hands dip beneath his waistband, clutching at his hips. Henry suspects he’s being toyed with. He knows he shouldn’t like it. Affection taking over him, he discovers that Ryeowook’s cheek smells like spiced smoke when he kisses it. From what, he’s not sure yet, different than his previous scents. It burns a little, but that’s nothing compared to the flare his sweet smile sets off when it blooms on his face, the other corner of his mouth pulling up to match the first, his eyes crinkling with joy. Henry means for his gesture to be reassuring; he doesn’t know if that’s understood, but that’s how it’s meant.

“Go,” Ryeowook commands, a touch of mirth in his voice. He turns Henry around, only the remnants of the shapes of his fingers remaining on his skin. Henry emits a mild and appropriate sound that’s absolutely nothing like a yelp at the sudden sharp smack to his ass. He doesn’t deign to swivel his head back towards, nor in any way acknowledge, the chuckling behind him. Much more dignified to keep walking and hide his grin that way, a hundred unspoken questions an acid bite on his tongue all the while.

The bedroom door’s grating squeak jars him when Ryeowook closes it behind them. Henry winces; he could’ve sworn he fixed that already. He dislikes appearing careless in the face of Ryeowook’s meticulousness, though it’s never brought him anything worse than some chuckling and amused comments in a voice pitched low, five seconds at most before it’s forgotten. Usually, like now, there’s nothing at all when he spins on his heel to check.

Facing away, Ryeowook is brisk and efficient, pulling his waistband down off his hips with his thumbs as though he wasn’t being watched, and- _oh._ He’s not messing around today. Might’ve spent hours like that, the texture of his slacks a constant pinprick over his bare flesh, just for this moment. Might’ve wanted to make a show of his eagerness and… what? Only lost heart now?

Damnit, this can’t go unacknowledged.

Henry’s behind him in no time, his thumbs tracing the same path Ryeowook’s did as he dips his head to bring his mouth level with his ear. “I like that you were waiting for me. I really like it,” he says, quietly, gutturally. As soon as the words have left his mouth, he wonders if he’s out of line and silently bemoans that he can’t manage that velvet tone that could lend an air of confidence to his words, fears that raw _want_ isn’t good enough.

Still, Ryeowook’s pressing back against him, a tinge of red along the edge of his ear, his head tilting to expose his neck. That tempting column is in need of a thorough tasting, nothing could be clearer, so Henry obligingly runs his tongue up the length of it to the juncture of Ryeowook’s ear and jaw, back down to the encouragement of his low groan. Thumbs on his hips turn into a full hold, drawing him backwards to showcase an answering ardor that’s even more explicit than making a feast of the line of his throat and the strong curve of his shoulder, marking the occasion with a delighted purr of ravishment.

Every contour and plane feels magnificent in Henry’s grasping hands, languidly wandering to cup his waist, his midsection, the entire span of his sides inch by devouring inch, stopped by bumping into his underarms. A perfect fit, nestled snugly in his hold as if they’re designed to be a matched set.

When Henry drags his teeth over Ryeowook’s pulse point, licking in lingering patterns where neck curves into shoulder, he can sense the high “ah!” unraveling his patience. He lets it.

Unable to wait long enough to rile him up any further, enticing though his reactions may be, Henry shucks off his jeans and underwear embarrassingly quickly, wanting only to feel Ryeowook’s body pressed intimately against his once more. Then again, and again, and again, if such an outcome is within his reach. Right this second, it definitely is, sticky from a hint of sweat. If his embrace is too ardent or his breath bothersome where it ghosts over Ryeowook’s ear, his lover doesn’t voice any such thing.

What Ryeowook _does_ voice is affirmation of his own desires, heretofore only implied, answering at last with the fewest words possible.

First, though, he turns so that they’re facing each other, pulling Henry’s shoulders down until the two of them meet in a messy kiss, more passion than finesse. He parts them with one last fleeting lick into Henry’s mouth as he pulls away. And then he speaks.

“Fuck me,” he says, his bearing brimming with certainty, his hands smoothing down Henry’s back to pull him in closer with an unrelenting grip on his ass. Ryeowook holds his chin high, keeps unwavering eye contact.

Henry wants so badly to match him somehow, say _anything_ , but nothing comes. He can feel his eyes losing focus, as though he’s lost the will to do anything that doesn’t involve following that order. Seems like his expression does just fine as a reply. He’s dizzy with need. _I **really** missed you._

Although he’s cold again without Ryeowook’s heat, he doesn’t dare interrupt whatever internal process is involved that drives their encounters forward. More slowly than expected, Ryeowook spreads himself out on the bed, all smooth skin and coiled energy. All on offer. His knees digging into the mattress and his toes bent, he rests on his forearms, his head hanging down as if he’s powerless against his desire and concedes to it. There’s an unnamed vulnerability at play. Henry treads carefully. “Do you need me to help you?” He asks, trailing his fingers down the back of Ryeowook’s thigh.

“No, but I want you to,” Ryeowook answers, unusually steady. The violent thump in Henry’s chest reminds him that he wishes he didn’t like Ryeowook’s bluntness so much. Generally, though. It’s fine right now. Good, even. “I did it myself earlier, too,” Ryeowook says in a tone more suited for discussing grocery shopping.

Henry freezes, his mind racing through images while his hand stills on the bend of Ryeowook’s knee. Did he do it in the shower, quick and cursory? Or was it in bed, knees bent and legs wide apart? How many fingers? Did he come, too? _Did he think about me?_ A dangerous thought, but Ryeowook keeps coming back, has for years, ever since those first inexpert fumblings in a sleepy post-filming haze that earned them a scolding for using up all the hot water. The buzzing of his phone in his pocket during their time together and the irritated huff it elicits from him has diminished sharply over that period as well.

Taking in the back of Ryeowook’s neck, Henry’s slammed with a sudden bout of nostalgia for the way Ryeowook’s hair used to curl over his collar. He wore surprisingly crisp button-ups that were rarely seen outside of their meals together, and Henry used to stare at the sublime perfection of such a minor detail, trivial sentimentality he kept to himself.

Anyway, best not to discourage Ryeowook with a delay. He shakes himself out of that stupor.

Plastic bottle retrieved from under the bed, he kneels between Ryeowook’s spread legs and slicks up two fingers, rubbing them together to warm the liquid. As one fingertip rests over his entrance, Ryeowook takes deep breaths, the strain his shoulders held unraveling bit by bit. He was quite plain about the fact that that this isn’t strictly necessary; it’s more about the mental aspect than the physical.

Continuing to simple, gentle rubbing, listening to Ryeowook’s harsh breathing, heavy with anticipation, Henry brushes tranquil figure-eights around his tailbone with his free hand as he slips his index finger inside, slow and careful. To call it inching would be to vastly overestimate its speed. No complaints come forth on the matter.

While he might never become an expert, Henry’s sure he’s gained a level when he can tell exactly the right moment to give Ryeowook some distraction, laving his perineum with broad sweeps of his tongue, occasionally pausing to bestow teasing licks and nips where his ass meets his thigh, leaving ripples of gasping and trembling like skipping a stone across a lake. Ryeowook has been quite firm over multiple meetings about what he allows during the rare times he’s asked for help preparing. Henry stays his hand when his third knuckle grazes overheated skin.

“More,” Ryeowook says. A fresh drop splashes onto the second finger, a moment’s wait to let it warm up, but even with patience and care, there’s too much resistance to get very far. Ryeowook makes an aggravated grunt, a forceful sound that only comes from him when something stubbornly refuses to go his way. It’s obvious that he’s trying _so hard_ to keep a certain pace or mood, or fulfill a scenario in his head.

Whatever it may be that he’s being thwarted from, his increasingly frustrated reactions have a quality of _‘This is not going according to plan.’_   He’s tensing up all over, tangible in the taut muscles of his thighs and back where Henry kneads with his fingers in an effort to soothe the hurt that’s almost certainly welling up from the feeling that his body is betraying him, a guess put together from a thousand scattered pieces. He was nearly inconsolable the last time this happened, well over two years ago, when the puffiness underneath his eyes screamed that his schedule was packed too tight and there was no room for error. It took a lot of holding and kissing and a bit of surreptitious rocking to calm him down. That night remains a breath-stealing painful memory.

“It’s okay,” Henry murmurs. He can’t write poetry - those assignments never ended well for him - but if he could…

He shoves that thought aside. Words couldn’t contain the swirling mass lodged behind his ribcage. Not even if he had them. But caring, _that_ , he can do. He keeps up the impromptu massage, limited as it is, and breathes calmly through the lull to leave space open for further directions. He waits through every hard-won loosening muscle, pressing his lips to the top of the outermost slope of Ryeowook’s hip, until he gets the go-ahead.

Another fresh coat because _you_ _can't have too much_ and it’s way better this time around. Now past the stormy waters, he relishes the foretaste that the tightness clamped around his fingers provides, a pleasantly preoccupying kick to the head. His imagination has no trouble calling up an echo of sensations that leaves him throbbing. Once he’s in as far as he can go, he leans over Ryeowook, chancing pushing his fingers farther in to chart a covetous trail of kisses into his hair, along the back of his neck, down the length of his spine.

“Move already,” Ryeowook says. His wobbling breaths give little clue as to what the hidden territory of his face might show.

Keeping his course as stable as he can, Henry starts with a leisurely in and out motion, watchful for any further rebuff. It doesn’t come. There’s a chance that the most onerous part is past, if Ryeowook has succeeded at putting aside whatever burdens him, but it’s too soon to abandon caution. “That’s enough.” Henry’s dubious, but decides to trust him. He’s lucky that Ryeowook couldn’t see the face he made.

He grabs the bottle and fills his cupped palm with the chilly fluid, doing his best to warm it with his fingers without spilling too much while the container falls to the side. After slathering it on, thick drops are dripping down onto the beleaguered material beneath them. He’s pretty sure he just drowned his cock in lube. Good enough. All but his target is gone from his awareness.

“Ready?” He asks, getting muttered assent in return, only one slightly off-angle attempt before he’s sliding in. Those first few moments are heaven, a utopia-forged bliss of slick, clinging heat gradually enveloping him. He savors every single moment. Slow is the name of the game. He pauses. “You okay?” He breathes the question more than speaks it, ready to try again if it goes unanswered.

“Just a second,” Ryeowook says. Henry knows what it costs his pride to say that; he knows the words Ryeowook _wants_ to say. He wants to issue the most obscene demands, loud and wanton enough to make Henry desperate, at once pliant and wild. But, for whatever reason, his body can’t keep up with the promise of his mind this time.

Henry squeezes Ryeowook’s calf, continues over to his knee and smoothes up the front of his thigh, rubs circles over his navel and then starts stroking his cock. The tension in Ryeowook’s body visibly lessens, shapely shoulders and the exquisite expanse of his back no longer held so stiffly, so Henry pushes further inside, still slow and careful. He doesn’t feel that worrisome resistance this time, but he checks in anyway.

“Should I stop?”

“No,” Ryeowook bites out, “just put more lube on and keep going.” Henry chooses not to point out that that implicitly involves stopping, at least for a few seconds. He does as he’s told and gingerly reaches for the bottle a few inches away.

He’s hesitant to take his hand off Ryeowook’s hip, but he does so, squeezing the viscous liquid into his palm, rubbing it with his fingers of the same hand to take away the biting cold, then spreading as much as he can over the exposed part of his length. _Don’t pull back_ , Ryeowook had once told him, _that makes it more difficult. Stay where you are until I tell you to move._ It only makes sense to defer to his instructions.

“Now?” Henry asks.

“Yes,” Ryeowook snaps at him. _Trust him. He knows better than you_ , Henry thinks, prompting himself to override the urge to hesitate. Easier said than done, but done nonetheless, the ease to his satisfaction. Such a relief. He hears extended exhales and knows it’ll be okay for now. A steady stream of curses escapes under his breath when he’s all the way inside, stopping to let Ryeowook accustom himself once again.

“Has it been a while?” There’s a wise corner of Henry’s mind, its voice faint, that’s doing its level best to tell him off for being pushy like this. But he has to know. He _has_ to. Because maybe-

“Of course it has,” Ryeowook says as archly as he can manage with a shaking voice. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve seen each other.” That’s one question answered. The implications make Henry’s hopes soar. “Okay, I’m good. Move.” Ryeowook’s request, if it could be called such, is more compelling this time around. He sounds much more satisfied than at the last check-in.

Henry very slowly pulls out about halfway, having to concentrate to not be swept away by the rushing current of his own building pleasure, then pushes back in just as slowly. He’s tempted to check in yet again, ultimately opting not to do so because he prefers to keep all his limbs for the foreseeable future. He has a sense for these things now.

Gradually increasing the length of his thrusts, the speed, the force, he slowly broadens the bounds of both of their pleasure, Ryeowook’s incoherent choked-off noises a welcome reward for his efforts. Part of him wishes he could see his face, but another part revels in the primal aspect their coupling holds like this, so easily visible, and he wasn’t about to refuse. He shifts his knees closer together to tilt the angle downwards, keeps shifting until- there, _yes_ , Ryeowook lets out a piercing “Mh!” and rakes his nails over the covers, gripping handfuls over and over, out of sync with the heaving lungfuls of air he takes in at irregular intervals.

Henry’s caught in a stretched-out moment of madness, madness that surrounds him with sound and heat and incredible contractions that send rapturous pulses pounding through him, and he never wants to leave.

Lust erupts sharply within him, a singular hunger; he’s filled with pure, unadulterated desire to have, to _take_. Every time he notices his eyes have closed, he opens them again, moving his hand farther and farther over Ryeowook’s back, up and sideways along an unseen grid, possessively taking in every ridge and the just-right breadth. Slowing down is unimaginably arduous, but he has another need that must be sated, its dimensions as yet unknown.

He leans forward to stroke across Ryeowook’s shoulders, less softly than greedily. Ryeowook first hums, low and pleased, then makes a noise of mixed annoyance and disappointment that vividly evokes the fussy expression that usually accompanies it.

Ramping up the speed again, Henry returns his hand to the middle of his back, pushing down with his weight. He drinks in the unfiltered curses and whimpers that come flying out, the combination of that perfect angle with the right amount of strength easier to find the second time around. As he bears down with more force, Ryeowook writhing and growing louder beneath him, the clench of a thrill akin to jumping without looking twists and tightens in his gut - an expanding, intoxicating freefall.

Suddenly, he can feel the drumbeat of his heart, exhorting him to turn his attention to other desires still, kinder if no gentler. He slows down just enough to get the bottle open with one hand, clumsily jostling it around until he has another palmful, then lets it drop, leaving that problem for later. He starts moving the heel of his palm down Ryeowook’s hip, then curves around to his inner thigh without hurry, giving him a chance to say no or ask for something else. It’s happened before.

Neither a word nor a motion out of place comes forth, so Henry starts stroking him, his fingers reflexively selecting shapes and pressure from memory, glad to have the coordination and the presence of mind remaining to do so. Ryeowook makes a noise halfway between a moan and a sob, then starts pushing back into his thrusts.

“ _Please!_ ” Ryeowook’s begging roils the hurricane of every emotion trapped in his chest, and his hiss of approval makes him weak. Must be what oblivion feels like, a hint of it overtaking the very fabric of his being. “There, _there_ , so _good_!”

Ryeowook’s speech grows increasingly emphatic, devolving to chanting his name with steadily increasing volume, pitch climbing higher with every repetition. Turn-on doesn’t even begin to describe it. It has the decadent taste of an unasked-for mark of ownership, the very opposite of impersonal. Henry thought he was prepared, but he’s caught off guard when Ryeowook throws back his head to vocalize the scream he usually muffles. That rips through Henry like a tidal wave. He was already on the edge, waiting for Ryeowook. Now, he’s falling apart deep inside him, lost to the world.

Every inch of him feels completely spent, drained of energy and cognitive function alike. His head lolls back, his hands going slack, only loosely keeping their shape through abortive twitches. He pulls out at a languid pace and makes a halfhearted effort at wiping his hand clean, his eyelids feeling heavy.

Lying down and smiling like an idiot is a very appealing option and he intends to implement that plan posthaste. He’s still out of breath when he pushes the top layer of the covers off the bed so that he can flop onto the sheets, Ryeowook already walking away by the time he’d gotten his bearings. To tell the truth, he wouldn’t trade that view for anything, though it wouldn’t hurt to have some clue that that’s the right choice. _Pffft_ , **_choice_** _. Yeah, right. Keep dreaming._

Ryeowook comes back with a wet washcloth. He picks up Henry’s wrist, draping the nicely heated cloth over his hand, rubbing briskly with both of his own. Ryeowook carefully wipes the creases between his fingers, cautiously placing the fabric over his cock next and moving his hand more than the towel.

Pushing himself up, the points of his elbows digging into the mattress, Henry examines Ryeowook’s hand with a languor he only feels after their rendezvous is winding down. There’s a small cut sitting diagonally on the side of his index finger. Henry’s tired of wondering and second-guessing, so he lays his hand over Ryeowook’s, tugging him up to lie beside him.

As Ryeowook arranges himself, unusually yielding, there’s one slowly warming point of contact between his calf and Henry’s shin, and he takes the cooling washcloth for his own use. Henry’s pleased humming soon turns into a whine when Ryeowook’s warmth leaves him, though he graciously lets Ryeowook’s indulgent smile and the subsequent peck placed on his lips placate him. He lies back, content for the moment to drift into fuzzy half-formed musings. Faint thudding and creaking don’t trouble him because he knows who it is.

Soft cloth being pushed into his hand opens his eyes. His heart clenches when he realizes that Ryeowook’s returned with bunched-up pajama bottoms, a borrowed pair sitting unevenly on his hips, the ankles rolled up in messy circles. This, somehow, he feels no need to ask for.

His ease with Henry’s belongings brings comfort, but more than that, his spontaneity fills Henry with ironclad knowledge of their connection, seeping down to his bones. At long last, they’ve reached the heart of the matter. Ryeowook doesn’t _do_ spontaneous, and yet, here he is, clearly unprepared and not the slightest bit upset about it. They no longer feel so… undefined. His face still holds that same smile, tinged with amusement, while Henry wiggles into the pants he was given without bothering to get up or move more than strictly necessary. Not the most graceful method, but it gets the job done.

Climbing onto the bed, Ryeowook lies down parallel to him, facing away. He scoots back a fraction at a time without turning around. He stops as his elbow bumps into Henry’s stomach painlessly, then goes one more fraction, just enough for a hundred tiny collisions between them.

Finally settling down, he heaves a sigh that sounds sleepy and not unhappy. A tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Henry bends his knees, bumping into the backs of Ryeowook’s legs. In return, Ryeowook angles his to fit around Henry’s. Silence reigns as he pulls the blanket up further to cover them. Henry’s hand rests on the outside of Ryeowook’s upper thigh as he starts drifting off.

“Love you,” Ryeowook whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Because of [this](http://s1274.photobucket.com/user/jazzzyjam/media/676d0a6ctw1e1jow8yjh0j_zpse22ea920.jpg.html).


End file.
